Dawson Filter as He Relates to Walruses

Fear was quite a thing for Dawson Filter as he surveyed the room. It closely approximated itself during the last time it had been surveyed, but this time it housed a stout, Lithuanian man with a shorter-sleeved shirt than the one he would wear the next day, and unlike his future self’s shirt, this one read: “I am NY”, and smelled of cottage cheese.

“Hello,” he said, peering down at a tattered piece of paper he had been saving for such an occasion as this. “Babe Listowel, Sylvester Denny, and Dawson Filter. I’m here today. I’m here today to tell you that I will be here tomorrow to feed you with food. I’m a bit of a chef that way. I’m named, by the way: Luther O’Finn. My chums call me Life-Choices-Luther, though, on account o’ my my smoking.” The portion of the room’s people who were not named Luther nodded, and thanked the other quarter of the population for the future food. As this quarter exited, what was now the third named Sylvester turned about to Dawson Filter with a glare that would make itself exist; if it needed to, which was far from the case, as it was already existing in the highest regard by the time it gained this property.

“You are the liar of the hour, “Dodecadawson.” Sylvester noted in Dawson’s direction.

“What ever have I done?” Asked one in the company, likely Dawson Filter.

“You told the one who is me that your name was Dodecadawson. Given that chefs know all and cannot tell untruths, the name of you is Dawson Filter; and by extension, your most recently revealed characteristic is the one of a liar: the property of lie-telling.” Sylvester scorned as Dawson hung his head in buckets of shame. He spoke to apologize, apologizing in the process; but Sylvester turned his scalp and assorted other bodily parts dear to him to the door to leave them all behind and face the truth. The exodus of people named Sylvester Denny was cut short, though, when Benedict Oakley became a fourth person for the room’s space; promptly after which he opened a brief case of smaller brief cases, and spoke.

“What do you know of walruses?” He snarled between clenched lips at the very man who had been the cause of Sylvester Denny’s attempted departure.

Of the 853 Nobel prizes awarded (as of 2012), 459 laureates lived in the eight countries home to walruses, showing these forks of the sea to be one of the main driving forces in world progress. When the number of walruses in a 100 km area is plotted against the area’s estimated neatness, the trend line line increases logarithmically by nine times for every 50 walruses, leveling off only when the walruses become the area’s centre of mass. Dawson Filter, the ignorant lump of porridge that he was, knew none of this.

“I don’t even know!” He exclaimed for a while.

“That’s good.” Benedict implied by saying “Good.” Shortly after the last echoes of the letter “d” finished coursing through the spandex room, he left the room through its very own door, in an act of betrayal to be known by future generations as “March of The PengBETRAYAL” for reasons which would require the explanation of far too many inside jokes in far too many languages to document in this entry. Sylvester Denny then recalled his discord with Dawson Filter on whether it was acceptable for Dawson to build their entire relationship upon a stack of lies, for him to sit atop and eat lie-cherries, spitting their pits of deception on the Sylvester Denny below; and followed Benedict Oakley in his act of departure.

As Babe Listowel shrieked the English word “no” to the skies, hope of the party ever discovering the True Meaning of Feelings enjoyed a series of crumpets in her lair, absent from the public eye for a moment, but mustering the strength to enter said eye again with a thrust and a battle axe at any hour.